Posts from the ‘Textual Selfie’ Category

Dec 15

Nevada Bound

So, I’m up and off bright and early tomorrow for Las Vegas. I was really only half-serious when I mentioned it in passing last week. I do like that if I suggest something moderately realistic out of the blue, James will usually agree to it. I could probably take advantage of this loophole more than I do. A few New Year’s Eves ago I told him to “pick up a bottle of champagne, nothing expensive” and he thought I said something expensive, like I’d ever demand such a thing, but he did it which I thought was strange. My expectations must suck because I usually assume that if I ask for something I’ll be told no. Maybe I should start being really ballsy and demanding.

So, “hey, we should go to Las Vegas next weekend” garnered an easy, “okay.” I don’t know shit about Vegas (I have been to Nevada, maybe twice, possibly three times but I only faintly recall any of it because I was under four. Both my grandma, great-grandma [pronounced gramma–I recently got made fun of for saying grampa. That’s just the way it is, grandfather looks correct on paper but it doesn’t sound right coming out of my mouth] and aunt who was barely a teen, resided in a Dayton mobile home park in the early ‘70s. My undeniably spotty Nevada memories only include: people driving in golf carts to get the mail, a Siamese cat named Telstar, thinking that Truckee River was the most hysterical geographic name I’d ever heard [clearly, I wasn’t aware of Boring, Oregon yet], seeing hummingbirds furiously flapping their wings into a blur, driving L.C. [Little Cat] the black and white family feline we had for nearly another decade back home to Burlingame, CA, and getting freaked out by my great-grandma Weaver’s husband’s fake shiny leg you could see between his pant hem and sock top. I swear I saw it propped up against a bedroom wall but I might be false wishful remembering).

Las Vegas is just a random something to do and kind of a consolation because every year I sulk about doing nothing on Christmas, so in a way I’m trying to trick myself into having fun this weekend so by the 25th I’ll have mellowed out on my holiday annoyance. I don’t really gamble, I just want to drink and drive around (maybe not in that order) and eat buffet food and In N Out Burgers. If I come back proclaiming that Beatles/Cirque du Soleil coupling as genius, you’re welcome to beat me with a poorly made prosthetic leg.

Share on Tumblr

Nov 26

Thankfully Yours

For no reason at all, this year I couldn’t bear making a turkey, stuffing, potatoes, pie type of Thanksgiving meal. I did want to cook, though. My alternative criteria included strong flavors, vegetarian-friendly and not Asian (my usual inclination). The M’s: Middle Eastern, Moroccan and Mediterranean seemed wise (and had nothing to do with Turkey bird/country puns). I was finally able to use the restaurant cookbook, Moro, a 2004 Christmas present from my sister. Ultimately, I settled on the following:

Squash Fatayer
Turkey Bisteeya
Green Beans with Cinnamon Yogurt
Golden Rice with Cranberries
Pumpkin Flan with Spiced Pumpkin Seeds

I’ve never understood the guilt, family obligation, whatever that comes with celebrating the holidays. I just had a few other orphans over for mini slumber party, low-key Thanksgiving dinner. Where I get this apathy from became apparent when my mom called Thursday and mentioned that she was shirking a family celebration, herself. Those relatives all practically live in Portland so it’s not a long haul travel issue for anyone. It’s very much a case of why bother with things that are unpleasant or difficult (fine for family gatherings but it inevitably extends to concepts like going to the doctor, fostering relationships, exercising and eating well, career advancement and the like).

The best part of the conversation was when I asked what she was doing at that moment. “Oh, I’m baking cupcakes from a spice cake mix.” No harm in that though it only reinforces how cooking from scratch was, and apparently still is, exotic (the last time I went home for Christmas, maybe in 2004, my cousins had done a bit of home baking. Unfortunately, everyone was on an Atkin’s bender and in my mind Splenda and artificial lemon extract cancels out the whole scratch thing).

I was originally going to work Thanksgiving and then said fuck it. I didn’t want to be a martyr but losing a day’s pay also sucks. While I would prefer it to be metaphoric gravy, the last article I wrote could cover two day’s lost wages with a little left over so I took the initiative to be lazy. I probably should’ve worked yesterday (Friday) now that I think about it but I couldn’t get out of bed until 1pm. (Besides, I’m being positive and counting on some good news next week. It would be very strange to start 2007 with another new job especially since I already did the exact same thing this January. I think 2007 will have to be an entire do over of 2006.) So, I had more time to prepare food than I’d anticipated but it still took way longer than expected and there were a few flubs. But there always is.

For the fatayer, which is a pastry typically filled with spinach, I used a combination of butternut, carnival and acorn squash and ultimately hand mashed rather than pureed. Next time I would use all butternut because the other two were a real trauma to peel and I wasted over half an hour messing with them. The end result was probably a little chunkier than called for but that was no biggie. I doubled the recipe and played a little loose with the measurements due to the grams/ounces conversion and made round pastries rather than triangular ones. The strange thing was that I had more than half of the filling left over after crafting eight doughy orbs. Maybe I understuffed, though based on the illustrative photos in the book I was right on.

With the exception of peeling the squash (which thankfully, I did the night before) these were pretty easy to make. I whipped them up while guests were watching Iron Chef America. Don’t be scared off by the yeast, rolling and rising (I usually am), it goes quickly.

Pumpkin Fatayer

Dough
220g all purpose flour, plus extra for dusting
½ teaspoon sea salt
½ teaspoon dried yeast
100ml warm water
2 tablespoons olive oil

Filling
800g pumpkin or squash, peeled, seeded and chopped into small chunks
½ garlic clove, crushed to a paste with salt
1 tablespoon olive oil
80g feta cheese, crumbled and mixed with ½ small bunch fresh oregano, chopped
1 tablespoon, pinenuts, lightly toasted
sea salt and black pepper

To make the fatayer dough, place the flour and salt in a large mixing bowl. Dissolve the yeast in the water and pour the oil into the water. Now pour the water into the flour a bit at a time while mixing. When all the water is added, transfer to a floured surface and knead well. If the dough is still sticky add a little more flour; if it is still crumbly add a little more water. Continue kneading for about 5 minutes until the dough is no longer tacky, but soft, elastic and smooth. Set aside to rest on the floured surface covered by a cloth.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 450 degrees. To start the filling, toss the pumpkin with garlic and olive oil, and season. Place on a baking sheet in the preheated oven for about 25 minutes or until soft. Remove and cool. Puree and taste for seasoning.

To make the fatayer, divide the dough in four and roll into balls. On a generously floured surface, using a rolling pin, gently roll each ball to approximately ¼” thick, making sure the shape is a rough circle about 6.5” in diameter. Put 1 tablespoon of the pumpkin and put a quarter of the feta (with oregano) and pinenuts on top. Moisten the edge of the circle with a little water, then lift the dough into the center around the triangle of pumpkin. With your fingers, gently squeeze the adjoining edges together until sealed. Trim the edges of the triangle of any excess dough and pinch together again.

Place the four fatayer on an oiled baking tray and bake for about 10-15 minutes in the preheated oven, or until the dough begins to color, but not totally crisp.

Serves 4

Recipe from Moro by Sam and Sam Clark. Ebury Press. 2001.

I’ve always wanted to make a bisteeya (b’stilla, b’steeya, whatever) because I’m nuts for sweet savory combos. I can’t understand people who are grossed out by fruit and meat cohabitating. This Moroccan pie would kill them because it’s not even subtle like sweet and sour pork; this monster is strewn with powdered sugar, cinnamon and almonds. It’s a total dark meat danish. I was also drawn to it because traditionally the entrée would be made with pigeon or alternatively, squab. Two birds I’ve never tasted, but clearly it’s about richness, which seemed like a perfect match for dark turkey meat.

I’m all for banishing dry poultry so I ended up poaching three turkey drumsticks as my base. This did prove tricky because all the recipes I found used chicken parts (the only turkey version I saw called for ground meat and that’s just wrong) which would require shorter cooking times. I was thinking I could simmer the drumsticks in an aromatic broth for maybe two hours but it dragged on all afternoon.

I adapted a recipe from The Traveler’s Lunchbox, who had already adapted it from various sources. Mine was definitely a mishmash. In a nutshell, you simmer dark bone-in meat in broth steeped with saffron, ginger, cayenne and cinnamon and onions. After the meat is cooked and removed, you boil the liquid down and add beaten eggs mixed with parley and cilantro until the egg is firm. Almonds are toasted, chopped and tossed with cinnamon and powdered sugar. To assemble the bisteeya, you layer lots of phyllo dough (warka for purists, but I wasn’t trying to prove anything) and butter and create layers of sweet almonds, shredded turkey and herbed egg and fold the phyllo sheets around the filling to create a big blobby pie. Then you bake until the pastry turns golden. That’s it. If it wasn’t for the turkey taking an eternity to cook, this would’ve been a fairly streamlined operation.

Admittedly, mine looks naked. I didn’t go the extra step and sprinkle sugar and cinnamon on top. By this point, I’d already had enough to drink that presentation had lost importance and only two people were eating it anyway.

I also needed something green and crunchy to balance the starchiness of the menu. These super easy vegetables did the trick. They look kind of grotesque in the photo, though.

Green Beans with Cinnamon and Yogurt

1 garlic clove, crushed to a paste with salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
14 ounces Greek yogurt, thinned with 1 tablespoon milk
1 ½ pounds green beans
sea salt and black pepper

Mix yogurt, garlic and cinnamon. Add salt and pepper to taste. Boil beans for 1-2 minutes, drain and toss with yogurt.

Serves 4

Adapted from Moro by Sam and Sam Clark. Ebury Press. 2001.

At the last minute (ok, the night before but that’s cutting it close) I decided we needed a side starch so I made do with things on hand and bastardized this Golden Basmati with Apricots. I used jasmine rice rather than the recommended grain (I only had half a cup) and dried cranberries instead of apricots since that was what was in the cupboard. It came off without a hitch and seemed more seasonal with the berries anyway.

I didn’t want to fuss with a crust so pies were out of the question, but this seemingly straightforward Pumpkin Flan with Spiced Pumpkin Seeds turned out to be a real pain in the ass. You’re essentially making a flan and combining a custard with a can of pureed pumpkin. Easy right?

Er, no. You’re supposed to push the mix through a metal sieve, but there was no way all of my goop was squeezing through the holes. Nowhere did the recipe say to discard solids either, so I spent at least 45 minutes fussing, forcing, trying different mesh strainers to no avail. I eventually gave up, and threw the remaining cup of too-thick batter into the dish as is. At the rate I was going the six-hour set time wasn’t going to be until after midnight (which ended up being fine since we weren’t ready for dessert until after 12am anyway). Not only did the flan not gel completely, it wouldn’t come out of the dish. I ran hot water over the back of the pan until it finally plopped out in an oozy block. I didn’t take a picture because it looked like shit.

Food aside, I’m always baffled how these types of evenings progress. Originally, there was a loose plan to play board games and watch hot gay teen hustler flick, Mysterious Skin (a perfect double feature would’ve been Brokeback Mountain, but that doesn’t air on cable until this Sunday. Though we did get a little unexpected man-kissing when we randomly clicked on original Cronenberg Crash, [I love how the decade-old website still exists] not cheesey Oscar Crash. I still think it’s weird how Elias Koteas ended up in all these arty flicks because I can only think of him as skinhead Duncan in Some Kind of Wonderful, which happened to be on TV today) but none of that happened. Five bottles of wine and a pack of Kools (I’m still not clear on the whys of how a friend started carrying menthols. For the record, I’ve only been smoking one-to-two cigarettes a week rather than a day so I figured a holiday binge wouldn’t kill me) will cloud good judgment.

Somehow we got sucked into the truly amazing, Kirikou and the Sorceress on the Black Family Channel (this French animated film is bizarre and charming in its utter un-American style. Without spoiling the story, it’s kind of about a precocious brave baby that’s born walking and talking and saves his village. That doesn’t sound terribly enticing, but one of my friends ended up having Kirikou show up in her dream the next night. It sticks with you). Next thing you know, I was watching the kind of crap that I’d normally chide James for putting on like Control, and marveling at Willem Defoe’s weird beauty. Then it was 6am and I was unable to turn off VH1 Classics, showcasing the hideous slightly before my time Rush, as well as the hideous firmly within my era Soundgarden. Somehow the night always ends with VH1 Classic (I have photographic reminders of how I practically cleared a room with my dancing to George Michael’s “Monkey”).

I’m not one for people photos but I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was a true Thanksgiving orphan (no, I’m not pictured).

Share on Tumblr

Nov 14

Sweet Smell of Excess

I told myself that if I ever get to take a substantial vacation any time soon (which doesn’t seem likely in my current state) that I’ll only go to one city (ok, possibly two) and explore the hell out of it. I always try to cram in as many places as possible in my allotted amount of time off and never feel settled in any of them (Spain and Wales in ten days wasn’t enough and even two and a half weeks for Hong Kong, Singapore, Penang and Kuala Lumpur was too brief).

That’s also how I feel about throwing parties, even low-key ones. I want to make a million things, and I often succeed despite space constraints (I can’t complain about the size of our apartment—it’s vast by local standards, but the kitchen is as tiny as NYC stereotypes would have you believe. Witness dirty aftermath in photo to the right. There’s a mere 18” of workable counter space, which is better than the zero inches I’ve had in the past). The trouble arises when I have my hands full literally, prepping snacks and sipping drinks. The last thing I’m capable of is taking pictures. Photoblogging and I are natural enemies. My antisocial nature becomes apparent when over the course of six hours I only manage a few food shots and not a single image contains humans. For all anyone knows, my Saturday night soiree was a party of one (does anyone else think it’s weird that two former Party of Five actors with animal surnames both play doctors in back-to-back ABC dramas?) when I’d estimate that thirty odd guests came and went over the course of the evening.

Deep-fried candy was intended as the main event, though judging from the heaving bag of leftover bars in the downstairs fridge, we didn’t make much progress. More attention was paid to battering and cooking oddball items like Sara Lee Cheesecake, Entenmann’s Blackout Cake, caramel apples and Hostess Sno Balls. Anyone interested in recreating the greasy decadence in the privacy of their own home can follow the recipe I posted from a previous venture a few years ago.

Raw caramel apple

Cooked Sno Ball

On the non-sugary front, I whipped up two easy drinking snacks to go with the Jalapeño Margaritas. Supposedly, I squeezed enough limes for 18 drinks (it’s a good idea to not save the task of juicing 30 limes until the last minute) but the pitcher was gone in a flash. Cocktails are like that. I thought I’d counter the Three-Pepper Spiced Pepitas, which was part of a Food & Wine feature “Bar Snacks for Food Snobs” with a common people Rachael Ray Spicy Chickpea Snack Mix. I don’t want to be a hater, but the garbanzos were kind of eh. It’s hard to compete with smoked Spanish paprika though.

I made a Fatty Crab recipe, Malaysian Glazed Chicken Wings, against my better judgment (ok, that’s a weird thing to say. I apologize for my completely irrational aversion to Zak Pelaccio, who apparently is opening a new restaurant in London). I’m crazy for fish sauce, chiles and sugar, so no complaints. In fact, I ate extra chicken last night for dinner and I’ll probably eat a few wings this evening. James was disappointed that I baked the poultry when we had a tub of hot oil at the ready. One can only fry so much.

Said oil was put to use for Perkedel Jagung (Indonesian corn fritters). I doubled the irresistible recipe given on 'Ono Kine Grindz and should’ve quadrupled it. I don’t even have photos of the fritters because they were devoured as soon as the hit the plate. They were served with Maggi Sweet Chili Sauce that we got at a Carrefour in Singapore. We brought a few bottles back last year because I’m obsessed with the sweet-spicy stuff but you can get versions in Chinatown. It’s even on Amazon, though the bottle is different and the label looks more old fashioned.

I borrowed liberally from James Oseland’s new Cradle of Flavor (which never struck me as absurdly titled until friends saw it on my desk and started mocking it/me with made up names like Bassinet of Taste. I thought my own invention, Snugli of Seasoning was a hoot—too much tequila has been known to influence humor perception) but am unable to reproduce the recipes in full here. No, I didn’t just gain respect for copyright, his recipes are just really freaking long and I don’t have the wherewithal to type them out. I made a shrimp satay that completely fumed up the apartment with its requisite toasted shrimp paste for the marinade. I’m highly tolerant of extremely pungent smells (seriously, I think I have a permanent sinus infection. For better or worse, I can’t smell anything) but James was having a freak out trying to ventilate the place before company arrived. Fans, candles and incense are no match for belacan. Thank god for global warming or else we wouldn’t have been able to keep the windows open all night in November. The dipping sauce was a simple concoction of kejap manis, sliced chiles and lime juice.

Gado Gado is kind of whatever you want it to be. I briefly blanched sliced carrots, green beans, bean sprouts and also included fresh cucumber and fried tofu. I forgot about the cabbage I intended to add. You can also make it heartier with sliced potatoes and/or hardboiled eggs. Vegans threatened to attend the event so I eschewed the animal byproduct. And just because a good percentage of plain vegetarians did show that didn’t stop me from putting shrimp chips on the side. The deep-fryer had to be put to use as much as possible.

The Javanese peanut sauce that gets mixed with the salad is actually a recipe worth typing out (unfortunately, Cradle of Flavor isn’t on the desk I’m currently occupying—I’ll add it in later). You start by toasting and grinding peanuts from scratch, which is so much better than using peanut butter and I’m not just saying that to be a purist. Shallots, chiles, coconut milk and vinegar eventually are incorporated.

So, next time it’s fried candy and say, one or two Southeast Asian treats. Hypothetically, I mean. It’s not like I’m going to fry candy and grill satay again any time soon–that would be repetitive. I hate paring down, though. Excess makes me happy.

I was also happy to be brought a pair of shoes that were too big for the original purchaser and the size 9 friend she passed them on to initially. I had just been lamenting (in my mind) how much it sucks to be a 9 ½ since inexplicably no one seems to make them (seriously—why the whole jump from 9 to 10?). It’s too bad that I hobble in even near-practical thick 2” heels. I have no idea how I’ll pull off spindly 3 ½ inch heels (note the use of “teetering” in the ad copy), not to mention the skinny jeans that should accompany them. I’d better lay off the peanut sauce and fried food stat.

Share on Tumblr

Oct 26

Going to the Bathroom Like Clockwork Good

Prune_1 Because I’m a sucker for gimmicks, I’ve been eating Activa yogurt since it was launched earlier this year. I’m not exactly wild about yogurt but it’s easy to transport to work, is low in fat and calories (well, that Greek stuff isn’t and that’s probably why it actually tastes good) and this particular product is supposedly filled with good bacteria that they’ve named Bifidus Regularis™ (honestly, I don’t know how you invent a bacteria). Over the years I’ve taken acidophilus (I always thought it was a yeast prevention, but my dad also took it for ages which is kind of strange now that I think about it because he was so not into vitamins or health in general), so I figured why not get more probiotics through food.

But I never gave much thought to the angle Activa was actually pushing until I saw a new flavor at Pathmark this weekend: prune. Prune? I’ve never encountered prune yogurt in my lifetime. Prunes are for pooping, duh. I should’ve looked more closely at their advertising claims bolstered by an illustration of a taut stomach with an arrow pointing downward, “helps naturally regulate your digestive system” and “helps reduce long intestinal transit time.” Ah yes, the dreaded long intestinal transit time (I actually discovered I suffered from such an affliction when I ate baked and ate blue velvet cake and my toilet water shockingly ended up turquoise a full three days later).

So, I’m mildly bothered by eating Metamucil in yogurt form but I’d much prefer this over anything hawked by those horrible Yoplait “getting a foot massage while shoe shopping for chocolate covered heels good” girls.

Share on Tumblr

Oct 24

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Sometimes you must pay the piper for your shits and giggles, and Applebee’s recently got the better of me. I swear, eating at this particular chain twice in two weeks is not typical behavior. The NJ meal was just happenstance, no harm done. Last Wednesday, though, in a serious lapse of judgment I agreed to meet a former coworker at the Times Square location (I think the LeVar Burton-loving manager is finally on the outs. I like to believe that this turn of events coming a month after my departure is directly related to their inability to function without my presence) .

I know, I know, you get what’s coming to you by not only dining in the epicenter of Manhattan evil (no ~~feeling~~ eating good in this neighborhood) but choosing to do so at a tourist-gouging venue. I thought I was woman enough to handle it. And I did emotionally, but I paid a price, literally. (You thought I was cheap with my $5/day lunch budget before, but now I’m trying to cap it at three pathetic bucks. Lately, I’ve been subsisting Kashi TLC bars, green apples and baby carrots brought from home sometimes supplemented by $3.19 medium Au Bon Pain soup.)

What would you imagine one might pay for a cheeseburger and two margaritas at Applebee’s? If you guessed $47, then you’re a Rain Man and I'd like to punch you in your calculator craw. And the cruel part is that you can view their menus by location on the website so it’s no secret that most Manhattan items are $6 more than their NJ versions. I would like to somehow hold Tyler Florence and his Huge Flavors responsible for this travesty.

I have a friend who was very disappointed that we never got to take advantage of Olive Garden’s $7.95 Never Ending Pasta Bowl promotion, which ended two Sundays ago and only lasted for about two weeks. Clearly, I was fool for passing up such well-priced carbs.

Photo of the other Times Square Applebee's (yes, there are two) from someone named Dawn Westlake.

Share on Tumblr

Oct 24

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Photo of the other Times Square Applebee's (yes, there are two) from someone named Dawn Westlake.

Share on Tumblr

Sep 28

Kill Your (American) Idols

Strange that two NYC newspapers would both print articles about women and whiskey drinking within two days of each other: Strong Drink is Not for Men Alone and Whiskey Chicks (guess which one belongs to the NY Times). I suppose two writers could’ve had the same idea at the same time (one is more of a first person account, the other a newsier reported piece) but this is the kind of thing that makes me wonder about press releases, insider events and the like. Who knows, there was probably some recent bourbon tasting with brands geared towards ladies like that horrible (in concept—I’ve never actually tasted it) White Lie wine (whose website seems to no longer exist), or a study released about an increase in female whiskey drinking (I thought there was an upsurge in the Atkins era because hard liquor contains less carbs than girlie cocktails, duh). Anyway, I’m a whiskey drinker, myself, so I didn’t mind seeing two articles.

The world has gone weird. Today I interviewed at Fox News (yes, they have a library) and next week I interview a former American Idol contestent for an article I’ve been assigned. I’m so not about Fox News or American Idol. Sometimes I don’t know how these things happen to me.

Share on Tumblr

Sep 22

Building Bridges

Maybe it's age and the supposed wisdom that comes with it but I haven't felt like talking about myself much lately. That likely a blessing because I'd only bore you to tears. But this whole mess did originate as an online journal, not a happy go lucky blog, so indulge me for a post.

Recently I've been waking up feeling simultaneously blech and panic-stricken. It's probably normal to have bouts of self-doubt where you feel ineffectual and hopeless (though I bet these corporate goths never question themselves). The problem is that when you're busy and bogged down with a soul-crushing job you hate there's little time for dwelling. Now that I'm only working sporadically part time (just three days this week, probably more next week) I have the free time to do anything I'd like (I mean, creatively, not shopping, traveling or dining decadently, duh) but there's not an ounce of inventiveness in me. I'm as leaden and dull as a human can get and that's really annoying. I don't want to be the kind of person who needs a steady job to feel ok and secure. I've only been freelancing for a little over a week and I'm becoming all too keenly aware of my ingrained lack of self-motivation and direction. I'm so not a go-getter, I'm barely a get-out-of-bedder.

Free time is like that, though. If I remember correctly, I was unemployed in most of 2000 and 2003 and I didn't do shit. I have nothing to show for it except huge credit card debt (I think I'm trying to scare myself into action. Even though I know my short-term income will be spotty I went nuts on Sunday and paid off one of my credit cards [I have three] with the smallest balance, which was around $2,500. I might be hurting for that $2,500 at some point but I just couldn't stand having it around anymore and I was racking up a $50 or so monthly finance charge). And I know that I'm capable of more than shit. I swear, this is why people have children. At some point people just give into their mundane-ness and pin their hopes on the next generation. It's the circle of life(lessness).

I'm really jealous of passionate driven people because I swear if someone told me that I could do anything for a living that I wanted to (unrealistic or not), I'd be stumped. There was some promo for I don't know, maybe PBS, where a kid who was maybe ten was obsessed with building bridges. He wrote letters to companies, his family visited an engineering firm while on vacation (the staff even presented him with a bridge cake) and now he's all gung ho on doing well in school and taking the right courses in college. How do you get so set and focused like that, as a tot, no less? I don't begrudge those bridge-building types, I'm in awe. It's the ones who succeed because they've always been surrounded by financially supportive families that disturb me.

I feel paralyzed by the '00s and I'm sick of looking at and keeping up with food writing/blogging. I don't even like food writing. Everyone knows everything and it seems impossible to have a new thought. Or maybe I just don't have any. Every day a new site sprouts on the amateur front as well as the pro side (The Times recently went bloggy, then last week defunct print mag Chow launched The Grinder and New York started Grub Street). I can't keep up with all this shit and watch TV too. Yesterday, I was trying to come up with fresh pitches (I can usually rely on the section of the NY Post that I write for, for select items, but am trying to expand my scope) and getting exasperated because I'm not an insider or connected in any way to the food scene and I hate networking so it's hard to grab trends first (actually, I think this is a NYC dilemma because everyone is so hyper critical and snarky and the standards are insanely high. It got me thinking that I should look at markets outside of the city). I don't even know that I want to write about food, at least not in the precious produce fixated or family traditions ways that are pervasive and currently admired. (From this week's papers: Vegetable Love, Requited, Back to the Ranch, When Life Gives You Apples, Make Pie. Hmm, now that I'm looking The Chicago Tribune has some nutty stories about taste testing chain pizzas and how McDonald's might start serving breakfast all day. Weird place, that Windy City) I want to write about fun things. NYC is many things, but a funny city it is not.

Here's an example of how much things have changed in the last ten years. Before the Food Network hit big and everyone became an expert via blogs, writing about food wasn't terribly trendy. When I first moved here, I recall seeing Pete Wells's byline in Time Out New York quite a bit. He's become prolific and well-respected since then (and recently ruffled countless food bloggers' feathers when he essentially declared most of them a waste of time, which I'd actually agree with even though I'm also guilty of near-daily drivel. I'm not a food blogger, though, and I don't document my meals because I'm an aspiring food critic. It's just a compulsion that occurred to me around 2000, the same geeky impulse that had me tracking Henry Thomas's every move as a twentysomething and writing reviews of every Ray Bradbury short story in a notebook as a teen.) Now he's about to become the editor of the New York Times's dining section, which most would agree is a pretty big deal. So, I searched the Time Out NY archives to see what sorts of food topics he covered in the '90s and it was very telling.

The first piece I found was from 1996 and was about where you find restaurants with fireplaces. There's no way in a million years that anyone, including Time Out NY, would accept that idea today. It's way too simplistic and there isn't any newsy, hot trend angle. It's just, hey, it's cold out, here's where it's cozy. I also found another about where to eat in Coney Island, which I suspect would also be a no go today. Coney Island isn't as creepy (well, my sister's husband who apparently loves Wales, thought it was depressing if that means anything) and off the beaten path as it used to be. I'm not saying New Yorkers go their in droves, but now they have the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Siren Festival, and all sorts of urban renewal in the works. What's uncharted now? The Bronx and Staten Island definitely don't make it into many food sections. Hey, there's an idea…

Anyway, enough boo-hooing and overthinking. Whenever I get into a slump a little old fashioned cyber stalking always perks me up. I put my newly gained news library sleuthing skills to work and deduced that the guy I stalked in college who broke my heart (I still feel an itty bitty pang when I think about it) must've finally broke up with his girlfriend (wife?). They moved into a house she bought in 1994 and it appears that he moved into an apt. in S.E. Portland in 2002. There aren't any records for her with a newer address than the original N.E. Portland house, which I guess could mean that she's living with him and not on the lease but that doesn't really make any sense. Part of me would love it if their relationship dissolved because I firmly believe that everything eventually falls apart for everyone even though I really, really want to believe in true love forever. I mean, eight years for a college-started relationship is long is enough (though he was 24 and she was three years older, not exactly spring chickens, which is strangely NW). When I got out of Portland in the late '90s I was scared of all the settling down mid-20s freaks buying houses, gardening, microbrew drinking, dog walking and the like. Of course, now I'm re-facing the same issues a decade later which was bound to happen because 30s are all about that stuff. Talk to me in my 40s when I'm a real crab.

Share on Tumblr

Sep 16

Turning Over a New Leaf

The week before last James brought home a giant (like practically five pounds) bag of spinach from Rossman Farms, the ghetto produce stand down Third Ave. I agree that $2.99 for that many greens is a bargain, but I hate waste and there's no value in buying food you can't possibly use. (When I was a kid, my grandpa would do things like buy cases of canned water chestnuts at grocery outlets because they were cheap even though no one in my family really ate water chestnuts. As a teen I decided to try one of his donated old cans of clam chowder as an after school snack and let's just say that is possible for canned food to expire. The contents had turned pinkish and smelled piney and medicinal, which was only enhanced as I warmed it up.) I made four calzones one night, he made creamed spinach another and that only used up half the bag. By that point I was already bored with spinach.

I was going to say that we had spinach coming out of our asses, then last night we were picking up jerk chicken at Peppa's after watching Half Nelson (there's something about harrowing drug movies that makes me want to use drugs rather than stay away from them. The only part of the movie that made me sad was that he let his cat die) and there was a news blurb about the e coli spinach outbreak, so apparently sick people literally had spinach coming out of theirs. Uh, and died. I was like "see, that's what happens when you go overboard with packaged spinach." I totally cheated death. Or at least violent diarrhea.

Share on Tumblr

Sep 5

Pie Holes & Scallywags

So, I don’t watch or read the news for a few days while I’m out of the country (ok, just Montreal) and the first item I’m hit with is the Crocodile Hunter getting stabbed to death by a stingray? Jesus, I really need to be more plugged-in while on mini vacations. This aquatic mishap only reinforces what I’ve always suspected, that sea creatures, especially rays (The other night I got sucked into a fluffy HD show [you know, hour-long nothings created to simply show off high definition images] about giant manta rays and got the crap scared out of me) are up to no good.

The past week has been shocking and pleasing with the weather bizarrely going down to morning 60s (unfortunately, it’s still humid enough to induce mild sweating). It’s what September should bring. Of course I somehow forgot that September also brings screaming schoolchildren feet from the open window next to my bed. The kids are so damn rowdy they make me nervous and I’m not the one with back to school jitters. There appeared to be two groups this morning: comfortable horse playing types who seemed to show up alone and the skittish kids with parents in tow, trying to convince them that school is going to be fun.

I still can’t figure out what grades attend the public school across the street. There are little little kids being handheld by grownups and then there are girls who have enormous butts and boobs barely contained by their ill fitting jeans and tee shirts. (I know girls mature faster and that supposedly puberty is striking earlier as kids ingest more hormones and crap in their food, but I still don’t think seven-year-olds look that outré yet.) Seeing the chaos and tumult of the Brooklyn public school almost taps into my distrustful NW roots and makes me see the beauty of home schooling.

Last night we made the mistake of stopping at a Friendly’s (I knew we should’ve gone to Bennigan’s instead) in Latham, NY (a few miles north of Albany where our favorite Wal-Mart ever resides). We were trying to get back to NYC by midnight and being made to wait nearly an hour for nothing special sandwiches was agonizing (and then to add insult to injury, James was given the Alpine Chicken Sandwich instead of the Grilled Smokehouse BBQ Chicken Sandwich. It sucked that the service was so slow because I was horrified/fascinated by the purple and brown Awesome PBJ Sundae but there was no time for ice cream). I kind of felt bad for our waitress because she seemed genuinely sweet but dangerously un-smart. And then I overheard her talking to an elderly couple about her two-year-old and the girl looked about 15, 16 tops, so then I didn’t have the heart to be harsh about the atrocious service that she was subjecting our entire half of the restaurant to). Our only entertainment was the freak show family taking up two booths in the back. The boys were emotionally damaged and pounding on each other and crawling around on the floor despite being at least six years beyond the rug rat stage. One daughter was troublingly larger than the rest of the children. Her arms were as big as my thighs and I don’t have lean legs. But it wasn’t their physicality that weirded me out, it was their peculiar use of the English language.

My back was to this family so I could only hear, not see what was going on, but I heard a little girl’s voice yelling in a wavering tone, “you’d better shut your pie hole.” Pie hole?! I’ve been known to use the endearing phrase, but I wasn’t aware of its popularity with the under-12 set. Later, one of the boys started calling one of his siblings a “scallywag” and I was like what sort of rift in time did I just fall through? When the older boy was chasing the younger one who’d stolen his hat, he was threatening, “You're going to pay, punk!” I’ll admit that’s not as strange, but I was convinced “dirty rat” or “fink” were the next insults coming. I swear these were home schooled kids, there was no other explanation.

So, we drove up to Montreal first thing Saturday morning and came back last night. It’s a long drive in the best of circumstances, maybe 7.5 hours, but yesterday we were completely traumatized waiting over two hours in line to cross the border back into the U.S. I could’ve dealt with the sitting still in traffic for 15 minutes at a time, five miles back from the check point, but we hadn’t predicted such a long wait and our ¼ tank of gas began depleting. The gas light came on while we were in a deadlocked jam. I was totally panicking because there wasn’t a shoulder and you couldn’t turn around. People were already going nuts and getting out of their vehicles and just wandering or sitting on the side of the road from boredom. If our car stalled and we blocked one of the two lanes that were already crammed with cars, someone would kill us. I’d be pissed if someone was so retarded as to not fuel up before getting into such a situation. All I could think was how we might have to push the car five miles, which could work because it was flat terrain and autos were only moving inches at a time anyway. After an hour or so, I saw an Esso sign in the distance and we were able to putt to the last exit before customs. Uh, but it was a diesel-only station so we were screwed.

Luckily, from taking this side detour we were actually able to circumvent like 30 minutes of traffic and popped back on the road way ahead of the game (we accidentally figured this out, but a lot of NJ drivers were pissing off the stuck cars by doing this aggressive pull around trick). We stopped at the Duty Free and put a shot glass full of accelerant we’d bought at Wal-Mart on the way up, hoping that it would boost the gas fumes we had left (rather than dilute the precious remaining drops) to get us over the border where there were real gas stations.

I almost started crying when I realized the guy manning our line was checking everyone’s trunks in front of us. This farcical war on terror is too much, like this was helping anything. I was exasperated with spending 2.5 hours trying to go a few kilometers and more wound up that they were going to confiscate our raw milk cheese and horsemeat (don’t cry, the Quebecois don’t—they sell it at mainstream grocery stores) we’d purchased. Through some miracle, we were believed when we said we only bought clothes and chocolate. I also bought K-Tel disc High Voltage at Village de Valeurs (I couldn’t believe Montreal had the Value Village chain, which I thought only existed in the Pacific NW) to replace an unreturned copy I lent years ago, but didn’t feel the need to disclose that C$1.49 acquisition.

Anyway, Montreal was fun, though I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Food-wise I hit the biggies like St-Viateur Bagel and Schwartz’s for viande fume/smoked meat. We tried Canadian chain St. Hubert in the suburbs (I still can’t figure out how they can call gravy bbq sauce) and had a dating anniversary dinner at Anise. It’s very strange that Montreal’s flavors seem to be anise and cardamom, at least on this visit. At the restaurant, a namesake anise pod is nestled in each place setting and cardamom played a strong role in a few dishes. I was convinced that our hotel soap was also cardamom scented (though I can find no substantial evidence on the Roger & Gallet site) and wanted to do an interactive tasting where you’d wash your hands and then eat the little almond cookie laced with cardamom presented at the end of Anise’s tasting menu. Yesterday, I went to Genevieve Grandbois to buy fancy chocolates for my mom’s birthday and cardamom was the flavor of the week. I also just noticed they have a star anise graphic on their webpage. What gives with all the spices?

Share on Tumblr

Posts from the ‘Textual Selfie’ Category

Nevada Bound

Thankfully Yours

Sweet Smell of Excess

Going to the Bathroom Like Clockwork Good

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Kill Your (American) Idols

Building Bridges

Turning Over a New Leaf

Pie Holes & Scallywags

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101